


Le Fay

by Assimbya



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-04
Updated: 2007-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:45:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4272315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Assimbya/pseuds/Assimbya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgan visits her siblings, and constructs a persona.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Fay

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for mention of canonical incest (and related dubious consent) and attempted murder.

Morgan leaves the mortal world for years, and no one much cares, not Merlin, who was loath to divulge the secrets of his magic to a sullen girl who could hardly conceal her hatred of him, not Morgause, far too occupied with finding herself a husband to pay any mind to her younger sister, not Igraine, turned submissive by long years of marriage to a man she does not love, and certainly not Uther, who was relieved to not often see the face of his wife's youngest daughter.

When she returns, she doesn't know quite what to think. Great changes have been wrought in the world that she sought to escape for so long. Uther, the man she spent her childhood despising, is dead, and Arthur, the brother who she has never known, has taken his place. Morgan knows that there must be something that she should do about that state of things, but she's not entirely sure what.

And so she does what seems at the time to be the most obvious thing to do.

She visits Morgause.

When her sister married King Lot, Morgan was aware of it, though she didn't think on it overmuch. Lot was the sort of man she would have expected Morgause to marry; a great King, who ruled over lands outside of Uther's gaze, and indeed outside of the gaze of most of Britain. Orkney could be an isolated world in which Morgause could be the supreme authority, with no one to challenge her except perhaps her husband, which, if Morgan knew Morgause, would never happen.

Morgan doesn't bother going the long way to Orkney – she's grown unused to human ways of travel in the past several years – and simply brings herself to the room of King Lot's palace where she can tell Morgause is.

Her sister looks different, sitting there so regally. Her red hair is coiled up in elaborate braids, and on top of it is a circlet of gold, which she wears as if she is long used to such things. And, most surprisingly of all, Morgan can sense raw, untrained, yet powerful magic from every inch of her. Her posture is casual and yet. affected. She seems like a carefully arranged statue. But Morgan can see the new line around Morgause's eyes, hidden by messy illusions.

But, upon seeing Morgan, Morgause becomes swiftly animated. “Is it really my baby sister? My, you have flourished since I saw you last.”

Morgan allowed herself a small smile, “Greetings, Morgause.”

Morgause turned to a servant girl who, astonished, was watching the entire thing, “Bring a chair for the Lady Morgan.” The girl nodded and left, practically running from the room.

It was only then that Morgan noticed the cradle in one corner, and the blanket laid down next to it, on which a small child, not more than a year old, lay. Noticing Morgan's interest, Morgause smiled, like a self-satisfied cat. “These are my children. Mordred is the oldest, and Gawain is the heir of Orkney,” Morgause walked over to the cradle as she spoke, leaning down to pick up Mordred.

Morgan is about to ask why Morgause's oldest son was not the heir to the throne of Orkney, but then she catches sight of the child's eyes, and and involuntarily stumbles back a step. She knows those eyes. She knew them even when the one who they belonged to had taken the form of her very father. And when she had seen Uther Pendragon's eyes in her father's face, she had screamed to her mother not to go with him, not to betray her husband. But her father's pale hand had shut the door in Morgan's face, and Uther's pale eyes had turned away from her. All night long Morgan had watched through the key hole. Never again that night did she catch sight of Uther's eyes, but they haunted her, especially as she could her her mother's cries of pleasure, barely discernible as the name Gorlois...

She pushes the memories away even as it all becomes clear to her. “Why did you do it?” she asks Morgause, her voice an accusatory hiss.

Morgause puts the child down, composing herself as the servant girl returns, bringing the chair for Morgan, and then leaves again quickly. “I didn't know.” Not a flicker of emotion crosses Morgause's face. “He was a young boy – a handsome young boy, I might add, and I wasn't yet married. I thought I deserved a bit of pleasure before I married Lot, and I figured that any child I bore from it could be passed off as my husband's.” She sits down in what looks to be an effortless swirl of her skirts, and gestures for Morgan to sit beside her. Morgan thinks – though it might be only her imagination – that Morgause's hand trembles when she gestures. “I doubt you could have resisted him.”

But, nevertheless, Morgan does sit, though, when she resumes speaking, her tone is no less accusatory, even as she ignores Morgause's final statement. “Surely you must have known...his resemblance to Uther, if nothing else, or failing that, to mother -”

“Mother told us both the child had died, you know that!” Is there a quaver in Morgause's voice?

Morgan allows herself a bitter laugh. “And you believed her?”

There is unmistakably a hint of girlish anger in Morgause this time, Morgan is sure of that. “Whether you believe it or not, Morgan, some of us didn't spend all our time bitterly searching for scraps of information to fuel our ridiculous vendettas at that age!”

Morgan thinks of all the insults her sister could use against her – the fact that Morgause is married to a great King, while Morgan hasn't received even one proposal, Morgause's beauty in comparison to Morgan's plainness, and a thousand other things. But, at that moment, Morgan has nothing but disdain for Morgause, with her untrained magic which will impress nothing but peasant folk, and her bastard son from an ill-conceived, incestuous affair.

And, at that same moment, Morgan feels a resurgence of her eternal hatred for Uther Pendragon, and, suddenly, for the son (no doubt a handsome, blond haired, blue eyed boy like his father once was) who has unexpectedly taken his place on the throne and, it seems, in Morgan's hatred. Perhaps her long years of study have caused her to give up the chance to fulfill her vendetta against Uther, but the magic she learned in those years can give her a chance to have vengeance, more terrible than she could have before imagined, on Uther's son.

During the time that Morgan thinks all this, neither she nor Morgause speaks. Finally Morgause says, apparently having come to her own personal conclusions in that silence, “Arthur's coronation is today. There is a feast following it. That would be a perfect time for you to make your return to society after such a long absence.”

Morgan realizes that Morgause is offering her a chance to murder Arthur. It is a gift, of sorts, and Morgan is grateful. But, after a brief moment of consideration, she decides that she will not attempt to murder Arthur so soon, though going to the feast could still have its advantages. “That would be a good idea. I will, I believe.”

Morgan stands to leave, and Morgause laughs almost involuntarily. “You can't go there like this!”

Confused, she turns to look at her sister. “Why not?”

Morgause, still laughing, stands as well, taking the rough fabric of Morgan's dress between her fingers. “They'll think you're coming to sell them something, not attend the feast.”

“It doesn't matter much how I look.” Morgan says no more than that, but they both know what lies behind those words; Morgan is the plain, intelligent one. Morgause is the beautiful one.

There is a small smile on Morgause's face. “You would be surprised.” She picks up a silver mirror from the table and holds it up, pulling Morgan close to her. Their faces are reflected side by side, and though they are infinitely different, Morgan cannot deny that they are both beautiful. Her pallor, which always seemed merely sallow next to Morgause's burnished gold complexion, now contrasts dramatically with her dark hair – which now seems rich and lustrous, not lank and ugly, though it cannot live up to Morgause's rich red locks. The only thing that they both share are their green eyes – exactly like their mother's, which stand out startlingly in Morgan's pale face.

She feels an involuntary gasp escape her lips. She is beautiful. And, looking at Morgause's reflection next to hers, Morgan immediately understands the utterly new and unfamiliar power she now holds. And, when combined with her now extremely potent magic...the possibilities for Morgan seem suddenly endless.

Suddenly, Morgause puts down the mirror. “I told you that you'd flourished. Now, you can borrow some of my clothes for today. Come with me.”

With Morgause, Morgan tries on close fitting gowns of silk and velvet, paints and powders she could not even have dreamed of, and jewels of every size and color in existence. Morgan decides on a black gown, with a plunging neckline. The cloak that she chooses is also black, with a lining of red velvet. Morgause carefully applies a blood red stain to Morgan's lips, and tries to put up her sister's hair, but Morgan refuses.

The new clothes feel odd and heavy on Morgan's body, and she feels slightly uncomfortable as she bids farewell to Morgause, and even as she picks up little Mordred and whispers in his ear, “You will help me one day.” It is not until she has brought herself magically to the gates of Arthur's castle that they begin to make her feel like a wicked sorceress, seductive and evil. She smiles, in a way she is unaccustomed to doing. She is that wicked sorceress, not only play-acting at being her. And Arthur, her dear younger brother, will know that soon enough.

With only a hint of magic, the guards at the door let her pass without asking questions. And soon, Morgan is in the hall.

It seems utterly devoid of women, like an army camp, with the elegant clothing of many of the guests seeming out of place. Looking around the room, Morgan sees King Lot, Morgause's husband, and a few other familiar faces, but many of the men are young, almost boys still, and she does not know them. She does, however, immediately know Arthur when her eyes fall upon him. His fair hair is long, nearly to his shoulders, and it makes him look as much like a young boy as many of his companions – no doubt they were all his childhood friends. And, yes, his eyes are Uther's eyes, Mordred's eyes. Morgan meets meets his gaze and holds it. Her eyes say, _You thought my sister beautiful, and wanted her. Perhaps you think the same of me, but you shall never have_ me, _Arthur son of Uther. I am stronger than both my mother and my sister, and you shall never have me. Rather, I shall have you, and I shall live long after your blood has soaked into the land that you dare to attempt to rule._

Arthur only smiles. It is an awkward but charming smile; he will be the sort of King who wins the hearts of a thousand milkmaids and farmer's wives, the former wishing be his wife, and the latter his mother. And he stands, walking over to Morgan. The others have turned to look at her now as well, for she is an exotic stranger.

“My lady,” Arthur says, “may I ask your name?”

Morgan smiles back at him, but her smile is pure poison. “My lord, I am Morgan of Cornwall, your sister.”

There is a brief moment of innocent confusion on Arthur's face, and what might have been fear, and then the smile returns. “The Queen – our mother told me of you, my lady – may I call you Morgan, lady sister? She said that you were studying in France.”

Morgan nearly laughs out loud. So, is that the lie Igraine chose to tell the world? Well, it shall never do. Morgan must have a lie of her own. She smiles again, letting her gaze extend beyond Arthur to meet the eyes of many individual men sitting at the table. It is an experiment, and a successful one; she can almost taste how enraptured they are. “Our mother spoke falsely. I was with the fairies.”

“A French fairy!” A man who Morgan does not recognize stands up drunkenly, “Heres to Morgan le Fay!”

The men laugh, and Arthur's smile, if possible, widens. “Come sit beside me, sister.”

She nods graciously and takes the arm Arthur offers, letting him lead her to a seat beside him and all the while thinking of ways to murder him. As she sits. One of the men pushes a goblet towards her, and another hastily fills it with wine. She lifts it to her lips, trying to make the gesture as seductive as possible. That too is an experiment, and that to succeeds. She has them all

The conversation is monotonous, but every gesture Morgan makes during it is carefully measured out, and every one succeeds in its intended purpose. When she finally judges it time for her to leave (she has learned from watching Morgause to never give men everything at once – seduction is often about what is unsaid and unofferred,) she stands.

“I expect that all of you shall come to visit me,” Images play through Morgan's mind, a realm of which she can be Queen as much as Morgause is Queen of Orkney, but realm not part of the mortal world; one of her own creation, to which she can lure every one of Arthur's loyal follows. A heaven of sensual pleasures and a hell of magical torments. Glorious. “as soon as I have dealt with my affairs here. Don't worry about directions; you will know when you have reached my castle. And I give you all a perpetual invitation.”

She looks over the men at the feast, meeting each of their eyes individually until she reaches Arthur. Him she looks at the longest. _Oh, yes, dear brother, you may come any time you like._

Then she turns, with a carefully choreographed swirl of her black and red cloak, and walks out of the room. As soon as she is outside the castle she departs to begin planning. She has them all now, and she needs only wait. They will come, and she can be very patient.

Morgan le Fay. She considers the name carefully. _Interesting._


End file.
